All We Know
by Hubristic Chick
Summary: Merlin's waited for Arthur. But sometimes, the love you wait for isn't what you remember. And sometimes, parting ways is the only way to live. Merlin x Avengers Crossover.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating:** M, over 17 only (nothing terribly explicit here, I'll post more explicit scenes on my livejournal if they come up). Language, Violence, etc.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but my words and ideas. Alas, Marvel, the BBC, and other rich corporations hold the rights to Merlin and the Avengers.

**Genre:** Angst/Adventure/Hurt/Comfort/Romance (?)

**Pairings:** ? There will be slash, that's all I can say.

**Summary:** Merlin's waited for Arthur. But sometimes, that love you wait for isn't what you remember. And sometimes, parting ways is the only way to live.

**Warnings:** See end of chapter note. Not Beta edited.

**All We Know **

My life closed twice before its close—

It yet remains to see

If Immortality unveil

A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive

As these that twice befell.

Parting is all we know of heaven,

And all we need of hell.

~ _96_, Emily Dickinson

**Chapter 1 **

He didn't come the first century. Or the second. Really, all things considered he had been exceedingly tardy, missing invasions, wars, injustices, and a rather lot of things that one might expect a legendary king to be useful for.

And of course, he had kept Merlin, his fantastically loyal and ever patient Court Sorcerer, waiting for ages. Literally, ages. The years Merlin had spent alone, _living_ alone, had been…difficult.

But a thousand or so years, that's nothing, who's counting, wasn't so bad 'tall. And now, in the year of our lord two thousand and twelve, Merlin had _found _him, just, stumbled into him, at a used bookshop of all places.

And he was…beautiful, hair as blonde Merlin had remembered it to be, jaw strong and nose sharp. Really, Merlin would have been fine, no matter what Arthur looked like, would have recognized him the moment he saw him, but to walk into a memory, straight into the mirror image of _his _King—that had been bittersweet punch to the gut.

Arthur hadn't known him. That was to be expected, Merlin told himself, after all this was an entirely new person in many ways. Eventually, he would remember, remember adventures, near misses, triumphs, and failures.

He would remember Merlin.

That day at the bookshop Merlin had gawped unbecomingly at Arthur. Had stared long and hard, too intensely for acceptable social norms. Arthur, having dropped his stack of well-worn paperbacks, was blessedly occupied by cursing and picking up the mess.

By the time Merlin had gotten himself moderately together, enough at least to not gibber and to pick up on the fact that Arthur seemed somewhat oblivious to their Epic History, there were only a few books left on the floor. Stooping to help, he began to apologize profusely.

In a scene not dissimilar to their first meeting, Arthur proceeded to make an ass of himself while Merlin, too caught up in the moment to stop himself, grinned like a nutter.

Understandably his king was perturbed by the joy Merlin expressed when called an, "Idiotic arsehole."

An offer of coffee later and the pair were well on their way to being friends. A few gallons of coffee and months later, they were more than that.

Arthur didn't remember. Merlin didn't tell him. Something in him, his magic maybe, an instinct perhaps, told him to wait.

Merlin was awfully good at waiting.

So he waited and went to the hospital where he was a surgeon and able to rush around (_not waiting, saving, living_) and help people. He waited, and found Morgana, who remembered, and had Gwen, and looked at Merlin in unabashed pity when she met Arthur again. He waited, knowing that she knew something but hoping that it wasn't so bad as her eyes said.

He found the knights, Gaius, his friends, bumped into random servants from the castle or farmers from the fields, some who remembered, others lost in the _now_, the _today_ that they deserved, unhindered by shadows of stricter boundaries of class, of the horrors of war and siege, of executions and illness.

He waited and watched, and when the glee, the fucking sheer joy of having found his king again, died into a lower glow of happiness, he found himself blindsided by something that should have been the last of their problems, here a thousand years in the future and reunited at last.

Arthur, his brave, loyal prat, couldn't deal with his sexuality.

Uther was less of a bastard than the man who had sent hundreds of innocents to the fire but not by much. In some sort of terrible, tragic coincidence, in this new age, Ygraine Pendragon had died of AIDS. Uther, who in some ways hadn't changed a bit, displaced his grief into anger, and, predictably, blamed the homosexual community, sweeping aside all logic and any compassion that his wife might have brought to his heart.

And now here they were, Merlin, the loyal, waiting lover, and Arthur, son of Uther, who was raised to hate the part of him that loved Merlin.

"I just- I just fucking _can't,_"he whispered into the ringing silence that followed the end of the furious, brutal screaming.

Merlin had hastily shoved a few of his belongings that had made their way into Arthur's home in a knapsack as they had shouted. He knew that Arthur had thought it to be a bluff, knew Arthur thought he'd be back in a few hours, sheepish and forgiving.

But no. For fuck's sake, he was worth more than this, worth more than a prat of a boyfriend who refused to acknowledge him in public, _to his family. _Years, a millennia, everything that Merlin could and did give, it wasn't enough for Arthur, whose deeply rooted issues about his preference for men led him to hide that part of him. Hide Merlin.

And consequently, flaunting, kissing, _fu—_, associating with beautiful, busty women in an attempt to prove to himself…well, Merlin wasn't sure what he was proving.

He knew Arthur wasn't proving he desired women, when he came to Merlin smelling of perfume, and sex, and misery, unsatisfied and desperate to take Merlin, against a wall, over a kitchen table, on the floor. He was rough, demanding, and so fucking miserable those nights that Merlin could feel tears dripping on his back as his lover rocked into him, clutching him and whispering his apologies, crying out "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm so sorry, fuck, Merlin, it, it didn't meaning anything." After, Merlin held him tenderly as he wept, until he stiffened, pushed away, and scrubbed himself raw in the shower.

Merlin wasn't flamboyant about his sexuality—it was just a part of him, like his black hair and his magic. He didn't have a preference for women or men; it was, though it was an unavoidable cliché, attracted, in love with the person rather than the body. And for the longest time, it was only Arthur. And he could never, never be ashamed of that love.

But Arthur…he was ashamed, disgusted with himself at a level of conscious and unconsciousness that Merlin couldn't understand. He hated that he wanted Merlin, wanted a man. Behind closed doors, he could be loving, doting even, touching Merlin casually and intimately. But in public, he could barely manage to clasp an indifferent hand on his shoulder.

And always, even in the sweetest moments of their love-making, Merlin could sense a wrenching turmoil beneath his lover's skin. It killed them both, Arthur in parts uneasy, shameful, angry at his own cowardice and at Merlin, for supposedly rousing these feelings in him, and Merlin suffering on his king's behalf and his own.

Blindly grasping his bag, Merlin avoided Arthur's eyes, his scared and furious gaze.

_Oh Arthur. You daft, sorry bastard._

Because Arthur was an arse, was a fucking huge prick, and a coward in some ways, but Merlin _hurt _for him, for his confusion and misery, his conflict and the weight of his father's expectations and prejudices. He was fucked up and Merlin wasn't helping.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, happy moments shadowed by persistent guilt, infidelity, and misery. But this love that Merlin had waited for, had hoped for and remembered with a golden haze over his eyes, was hurting them both.

And he couldn't do it anymore.

**Notes**

**Warnings: **Internalized homophobia, mentions of homosexual relationships and sex, mentions of rough but entirely consensual sex. Fuckton of angst to get past and a fuckload of bad language.


	2. Chapter 2

**So, that last chapter was a fuckfield of sunshine and kittens, yeah? This one is somewhat less angsty. I think. **

**This chapter is dedicated to Pichicha123 - thanks for the enthusiastic review! I'll try to live up to your expectations :")**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

The next day he stumbled into the hospital, aware that going into work after the end of an Epic Relationship, especially one so very Epic as his and Arthur's, could not be considered anything less than fucking pathetic. But the truth was that he really didn't have anywhere else to be, whether to grieve or be distracted. Morgana would be a mess of awkward pity, Gwen a smothering mess of sympathy and tears, the knights an angry, helpless mess who would offer to beat up Uther, and all of them would remind him of _ArthurArthurArthur_

No, work was, well, it was less of a mess.

It was early, very early, and there was only a skeleton staff managing the A&E, who were more than welcoming to Merlin and happy to keep their mouths closed about his tear-reddened eyes and set face as he entered a buzzing exam room.

"What have we got then?" Snapping gloves onto his newly sanitized hands, he approached his first patient quickly.

"GSWs, Dr. Emrys, arm, leg, lung, and a graze on his head. John Doe, came in with a Jane Doe in similar shape."

The nurse handed him a chart that he took a cursory look at, before reaching out with his magic and observing the damage himself. His blue eyes gleamed gold as they flicked over the leather-clad form in front of him, his gear quickly being stripped and cut off.

"Wait a mo-"

Merlin's eyes went wide as he realized just who was on his table. This was the Avengers' archer, code name, what was it, Dovetail, Owlclaw, _Hawkeye_, that was it, Hawkeye.

He waved over a nurse he knew to be discreet, quietly telling her, "Madge, I need you to get me a phone. Now."

She nodded, unfazed with the order and rushed off calmly. Merlin examined the patient briefly, noting the pulse, weak and thready, decreased oxygen levels, and evidence of blood loss staining his discarded uniform. It looked as if his major arteries were spared but judging by his pallor and unsteady vitals, he was still in danger of bleeding out, not to mention the damage to his lung and the head injury.

"Ok, he's less than stable at the moment, so let's get a quick CAT scan and MRI. Then get him prepped for surgery, OR 1. We need to deal with the lung quickly but until we know if he has a bleed in the brain, that has to wait."

As the efficient staff rushed him off, Merlin sent a flick of magic to keep the man stable until he could him into surgery. Merlin rarely used his magic to heal completely, due to a bevy of reasons but things that tipped the odds in his patient's favor were easy enough to hide and perform.

In the meantime, Madge returned with a cell phone._ His_ cell phone.

Eyebrow quirking, Merlin sent her a questioning glance. "Do I want to know how you got that out of my locked locker?"

The grey-haired woman lifted her own eyebrow and looked him in the eye before merely grunting and hurrying off to take charge of a new entry to the A&E.

Smiling wryly, he turned his phone on and tapped out a number that he wasn't technically supposed to know. But though he had been trapped in his own personal angst bubble, as Gwaine put it, the last few years and largely out of the way for the centuries before that, Merlin still kept an eye on things in the world, watching in worry and fascination as it changed and evolved.

Superheroes, mutants, even magic-users, were crawling out of the woodwork, answering dangers and needs that once Merlin would have had to take the burden of. And so Merlin was able to step-back, urged by his magic to stay in the shadows more and more, and let destiny wind out before him. Though his role of passive watchdog could change at any time—and Merlin had a feeling that the time for action was not far ahead.

The phone rang for scant seconds before a rough, stern voice barked out.

"Who the fuck is this and how the fuck did you get this number."

"Doctor Merlin Emrys and I don't think I can tell you quite yet."

Silence met his direct answer and Merlin knew that his words reached far more ears than that of the man he was calling. He was also sure that there was a frantic search for his identity being carried out as they spoke. He went on quickly and calmly.

"I'm a surgeon at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, England and I believe I have your agent, codename Hawkeye, on my table. He has multiple gunshot wounds, an injury to the head whose severity we are now attempting to ascertain via MRI, and various superficial contusions. He needs surgery ASAP and as soon as I finish this call, I'll be heading over to operate. Another woman was brought in and is being taken care of by my colleague, Dr. Brintsel. Her wounds appear to be less severe and I do not recognize her. Does Agent Hawkeye have any allergies that we should be aware of?"

Another voice, male and tense, answered him. "Penicillin. Nothing else. Who are you?"

Merlin sighed. "Dr. Merlin Emrys, MD, PhD, and you are wasting my bloody time, not to mention that of Agent Hawkeye. I assume you have a team on the way so I'm going to hang up now and attend to my patient."

An intern came rushing toward him, signaling that the scans were done and it was time to scrub in. He managed to end the call with a soft, "He's in good hands," before hanging up and heading to OR 1.

Hundreds of miles away and thousands of feet in the air, Phil Coulson gripped a rail hard enough to bleach his knuckles of color. Behind him, Nick Fury was barking orders to agents who were furiously searching for the call's location and how the man had managed to call Fury's personal cell number, known only to three people, two of whom where currently on the bridge. A London based team was already on its way to secure the supposed site and the rest of the Avengers were being informed of the situation.

Suddenly, someone called out, "Director Fury! I think I've got him!" drawing the attentions of both the director and Coulson.

The agent quickly read off the details available, sweating slightly as intense gazes watched him project pictures and documents to screens all around them.

"Merlin Gaius Emrys, London-based trauma surgeon, MD, PhD, winner of multiple awards for teaching and pioneering surgical techniques, as well as grants for research. No known associations with any criminal activity, only interaction with the law is a parking ticket that apparently he charmed his way out of."

A hospital ID picture showed a rather young man with large ears and a goofy smile. His eyes were a deep blue and his black hair endearingly messy. The list of accolades and accomplishments scrolling beside the picture belied the image of youth and lightheartedness. This was the resume of a serious, talented medical professional.

Another agent called out, "Agent Barton's cover was blown but he completed the mission. A John and Jane Doe were admitted to St. Bartholomew's approximately 20 minutes ago matching Barton's physical description and the mark's. The mark has been judged stable but unconscious and Barton in critical condition, currently in surgery." CCTV footage showed two bodies rolled out of ambulances, one a familiar superhero, and both unconscious.

Coulson's eyes were glued to the prone form of his lover until a buzz from his phone alerted him to an urgent message. Pulling out it out, he grinned humorlessly but fiercely.

_Get in loser, we're going to London. Hangar B. _

_~Stark_

* * *

_TBC..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Merlin sighed, pulling off his scrubs in the staff locker room and exchanging them for comfortable street clothes. The surgery had gone well and there were no major complications. Hopefully, Hawkeye would recover completely in the next few months, sooner than a patient without a rather magical doctor.

He had walked out of the operating room, tired and scrubs bloody, only to be accosted by two black-clad agents with SHIELD badges. From what he could tell, they had been held back from storming the OR solely by Madge's stolid resistance.

Nodding appreciatively to her, he directed the agents to a small conference room and updated them on their fellow agent's condition. When they began grilling him on how he was able to get the Director of SHIELD's personal cell phone number, he cheated and flicked a glob of magic at them, enough to distract them and let him get away for a few minutes. In about a quarter of an hour, they would be on his case for answers but for now, they were satisfied asking each other inane questions about the weather.

In the meantime, he needed to figure out just what he wanted them to know. He was pretty sure that they were the first wave of interrogators. The man who had told him about his patient's allergy sounded professionally _and _personally involved—Merlin would be seriously surprised if he didn't show up sooner rather than later. And the other Avengers, from what Merlin had observed, they were a closely bonded team, like the knights under Arth—

He slammed his locker shut, trying to shut down his thoughts at the same time.

_Right. Ok then. The agents._

Fixing three cups of tea in the small staff kitchen nearby, Merlin headed back to the conference room, trying to decide the right way to deal with the situation at hand. He could magick the problem away of course, but it would involve changing memories, footage, and rather a lot of running about on his part. And he had a feeling that he'd be introducing himself to these people as more than a doctor, (albeit a very good one) soon enough. So, for the moment, damage control. It wasn't quite the time to reveal everything, if ever there was to be such a time.

Reaching the two agents, chatting about the changeability of London's spring days, he placed two of the cups in front of them and waited. Minutes later, in the middle of sipping their tea, two pairs of eyes cleared and narrowed, staring at the cups with suspicion.

"How did we get these?" barked Agent 1, whose pretty blonde hair was pulled back into a severe bun, while Agent 2 wasted no time in setting his cup down on the table with a thud and edging his hand to his gun.

Merlin smiled innocently at them and sipped his own tea, sweet and white with milk.

* * *

When Coulson stepped into the quinjet, he was met by the worried faces of Bruce, Tony, and Steve.

"Romanov, Thor?" he asked.

"Thor's in Asgard, Natasha's currently undercover in Egypt and getting into contact with her might blow her mission," replied Bruce, looking unhappy. "If Clint isn't…"

Here he hesitated.

Coulson nodded, blandly finishing the statement. "If Barton's not dying, she shouldn't be called."

"Tomorrow morning is her expected check in. We've informed her handler, who'll pass it to her then."

"And we can expect her in London approximately 5 minutes later, ready to shoot us all, including Barton" quipped Tony, whose attention was mainly on the controls of the jet.

Steve looked at Coulson worriedly, hand twitching as if he wanted to slap Tony upside the head. "What do we know, beyond his injuries and location?"

"Not much. Just the surgeon's name, the hospital, and some surveillance footage of Barton and the mark's admittance. Agent Dunn was the mission's handler, says he lost contact with Barton about 3 hours ago." His face twisted for a moment in frustration.

"Idiot didn't report the lost connection. We'll be having words." A silence fell in the now airborne jet as the Avengers contemplated the fate of Dunn. It wouldn't be pretty.

Steve broke the silence, directing his question at the whole team.

"What I don't understand is how this doctor got Fury's number – even _we_ don't have that."

At Tony's exaggerated cough he amended his statement, shooting a look of disapproval at the engineer. "At least, we don't have _clearance _to have that number."

An unrepentant Tony grinned at him, before answering, "Actually, that's a fair question. Unless he's at my level of godlike hacking ability, and let's face it, who is, then there's pretty much no way he could have gotten it without breaking one of the people who know it. Fury's confirmed that those who know it have been cleared for signs of interrogation." With the autopilot engaged, he joined the others.

"_My _question is what the hell his parents were thinking when they popped out the baby name book. I mean Merlin? Merlin Emrys? Might as well call your kid Gandalf the Grey or Albus Dumbledore."

Bruce, who was scrolling through a Stark Pad, added, "He apparently had no problem with it- no record of attempts at name change, his birth certificate looks legitimate, though SHEILD is running it past their experts. There are the usual governmental records on his family going back decades. Taxes, censuses, everything looks normal."

Tapping his armrest, he went on, "I've actually heard of him, he's been published in numerous medical journals and he's known for a particularly successful patient survival rate." Hesitating again, he looked at Coulson. "Clint got lucky – there's honestly no one better for him to have ended up with. He's that good."

Coulson's face was still frighteningly blank, but he tipped his head minutely to Bruce in thanks for the reassurance.

Suddenly JARVIS's voice was heard through the jet's speakers. "Forgive the interruption but I thought you might like to know that Agent Barton status has been updated to 'Stable: In-recovery.' According to the notes entered to his file, it appears that the surgery was successful, the remaining bullet removed, the damage to his lung repaired, and all brain activity declared normal."

The tension that had hovered over the heads of all the plane's occupants relaxed, relief that their friend, teammate, and in Coulson's case, lover, was alive sweeping over them. Their fears wouldn't be completely satisfied until they saw the archer, but until then, JARVIS's news was incredibly welcome.

"ETA?"

"Approximately 1.7 hours."

With that, they settled in to wait, each lost in his thoughts.

* * *

"What the fuck is goin' on? We were supposed to have at least half a day before the Avengers showed up! How the bleedin' fuck did they find out so fuckin' quickly?!"

The frantic, gruff voice speaking to no one was echoed by scrambled typing, the three screens in front of him flickering wildly.

"Shite, shite, shite, Dunn weren't supposed to say anythin' 'til the evenin'…fan-fuckin'-tastic."

A ringing sounded in the cramped and damp room, like that of an old fashioned telephone. The man froze immediately, before lifting a sleek, expensive phone, out of place in the battered room, and answering the call.

A faint voice whispered through the line.

"I, I don't bloody well know! I'm tryin', I'm tryin'…"

…

"Shite. Ok. Ok, I'll tell them. But Dunn?"

…

"But…."

…

"No, no, no, I got you. He's out." A nervous swallow. "I'll be sendin' Fadington then."

…

"Yeah, they'll be there in an hour."

The dial tone sounded and the man set the phone down reverently, hand shaking.

It was go time.


End file.
